


A Picture Paints a Thousand Words

by susiephalange



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Based on a Tumblr Post, Blood, F/M, Female Protagonist, Female Reader, Fluff, Hell's Kitchen, Origin Story, Painting, Post-Thor: The Dark World, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-24
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-11-18 17:35:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11295447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susiephalange/pseuds/susiephalange
Summary: In Hell's Kitchen, a painter who lives beside a blind lawyer has a new roommate. His name is Loki, and not just because she's suspicious of him, she looks into his little-known backstory...and her own.Previously titledThe Painter.





	1. The Painter

**Author's Note:**

> This was based off a tumblr post prompt, from [@lokiprompts](http://lokiprompts.tumblr.com/post/133771069112/loki-prompt-15) because I needed a bit of help for this fic, and found what seems to be the best Loki prompt blog I can find out here in the internets. Anyways. Enjoy fic, my lil' internet explorers!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An artist in NYC's roommate flags her interest into his unspoken backstory.

The day after you got the new tenant in your apartment, your neighbour turned up bruised and battered on his way home. It should be known you lived beside the up and coming lawyer Mr. Murdock, a lovely blind man who made passing jokes on the stairs. Of course, you wanted to think it was just a coincidence, and your tenant was just a hipster drifter with too much money and hotness genes. But it became a regular kind of thing, and when Mr. Murdock would come back to his place across the hall with bruises and cuts, Loki had an alibi, and your mind settled.

_“You’re not beating up the blind man who lives next door?” you accosted him over strawberry jam toast at seven o’clock one morning._

_“Of course not,” he replied, and retreated to his bed in the other room. Calling out over the hum of the vacuum cleaner a few doors down, he added, “I was receiving medical attention all of yesterday!”_

Perhaps you were just naturally suspicious. Your mother played cello in the Portland Symphony Orchestra, and father had passed away at his job (he was something like a security guard, your mom never really said). But all that left you as was the bastard daughter and an art student living out her student debt in Hell’s Kitchen where crime was unfortunately high and rent slightly lower than the average NYC prices. But naturally suspicious or no, the guy who answered your advert was oddly strange. Stranger than the blind neighbour who gave you boxing tips.

Loki had too much money. Perhaps, for anyone who spoke English and had only one pair of shoes, and didn’t know what a Ferrari was, or even the function of a toaster. The man knew loads about philosophy and the arts of stuff you weren’t sure were even arts, but life skills? None. He also spoke _too_ perfect English. Like he had been raised to make everything grammatically correct or no deserts as a child. He had no job, but promised he’d get one, and you swore he wasn’t American, or even perhaps, human. Nobody could recite poetry off the top of their head, at least, normal people.

But as naturally suspicious as you were, the was not an investigative bone in your body (a lie, but you told yourself that to keep out of trouble). So, life went on. You used your art degree and the studio in the apartment to create semi-masterpieces, and Loki got a gig as a bouncer a few suburb overs at a fancy club. Rent went on to be paid, the world kept spinning, people tried to forget about the alien invasion that came to Manhattan. Mr. Murdock’s lawyer business was starting to kick off, and there were masked heroes in the night time beating up mobsters and making headlines. But you stayed out of it, sending your things to the Scene Contempo Gallery, half of your money to your mother in Oregon.

_“You’re sure you’re eating and sleeping okay? Please tell me you’re not sleeping with some lead singer or drummer from a garage band. Don’t end up like me.” Your mother would fuss over the phone. You can always hear the birds on her end of the phone, and half miss them. But your soul loved the city more than birds. Nostalgia was for weak._

_“Yes, Mom, there’s no relationships on my end, perhaps for eternity.” You’d reply. “And Dad wasn’t a deadbeat, you said he was a security guard?”_

_“Something like that.” She’d reply. “I miss you, baby.”_

_You’d smile at the phone. “I miss you too, Mom.”_

But your roommate! He was just infuriating. Too smart for his own good, and a mix of a sullen, sulky personality with a hint of _stick up the ass_ and maybe some manners, under all that hair product. Maybe you didn’t trust anyone well enough to see a good side in anybody. Maybe you didn’t trust yourself, what, with the world suddenly having superheroes and aliens and mad scientists turning into giant teddy bears when they got angry. Loki would often fold in on himself, or cough late at night, or the shower would be running, but there’d be no sound of any washing going on. You weren’t a perv, you swear, but you know it when someone was in or not.

But he’d just come back from his shift at Harlem’s Paradise when you heard a crash outside the door. Of course, you were in your painting smock, and running to see the problem – who knew if it was Mr. Murdock falling over, you’d be the devil of Hell’s Kitchen if you didn’t do anything to help – you opened the door to see Loki, and through his black tee, blood seeping through onto his pale palm.

“Don’t tell me you’re in the mafia,” you gritted out, helping perhaps the heaviest man alive into the apartment, to sit on the couch that wasn’t covered in your painting stuffs. His blood was all over your smock, painting the otherwise clean item red. “’Cause that’d really suck on my tenant record.”

He’d frowned at that, but there was no reply. Lifting his shirt, you see a mark on his chest, and gape.

“Why on _Earth_ did you come here when you’ve been stabbed?” you ask him, quite frankly flabbergasted. “It’s like, straight through! You need the hospital, not an underpaid artist!” You run your hands through your hair, and too late remembering there’s blue paint and blood on your fingers.

“I’m, _fine_ ,” Loki replies, but there’s red on his lips.

You shake your head. “You’re really not! No, I will not have a guy bleed out on my couch. I am a reputable young woman! I can’t have murder on my hands!” you shriek, and dive for the phone on the table. “I’m calling for an –,”

Loki’s head shakes, hair falling into his eyes. “Please, just drive me yourself. I’d rather die a swift death than go in one of those loud automobiles.”

And thus, it went that you’re toting the bleeding out handsome roommate of yours to your Nissan Versa, and laying a drop sheet on the seat so he doesn’t ruin your poor car’s upholstery (priorities, indeed). Before too long you were in the ER at the Metro-General Hospital and while Loki was being wheeled away by nurses and medical jargon, you were left with paperwork. And explaining that you had no idea why the guy had been stabbed – no, it wasn’t me! – and why you hadn’t come sooner.

Turns out that there were still fractures of the blade in his stomach, and after almost twelve hours of surgery, Loki had been given almost twice the usual anaesthesia regularly used to adult males, and you were left sitting beside his bed, waiting for him to wake.

“When I was a little girl, I’d pretend my dad was in the picture,” you found yourself talking to his knocked-out body, low enough so the person in the next bed behind the curtain wouldn’t be disturbed, or let in on your secrets. “Kind of pathetic. I’d say he was a pilot, and that he had a big plane, and flew people around the world.

“Mom found out, and told me about what he did, but I know she lied. You probably know already, but I’m just someone who can’t let things lie. I don’t know, it’s like there’s something in my blood that makes me want to do things beyond what I’m comfortable with, make things come from nothing, find answers to impossible questions.” You confided to the sleeping Loki in the bed.

He lay there like a sleeping beauty, his dark hair tangled, eyes still under his eyelids, breathing regular. Just by sitting here to make sure he didn’t swallow his tongue, you were costing yourself time and effort with the painting Ms. Marianna needed by the end of the week. Literally costing yourself money by being around to watch a sleeping man lay. It wasn’t that you felt anything for him, stars, no. He was under your duty of care in the apartment. He never spoke of family, or his own friends, heck, now it felt strange to think about those facts, but it also made you the only person the guy had.

“But you don’t care. You’re just Mr. Comatose.” You sigh.

Of course, it took another day or two before he was himself again, and a week after that when the bandages came off. Finally, there were tell-tale signs of him healing with modern medicine and your panic levels reduced until it was just the dull ache like always. You went back to painting. Loki went back to the club he worked for. Your Mom called every Friday, and he never spoke of his family.

But you were going to find out. You were determined, and naturally suspicious. It was a Tuesday, and coming from a slow shift at the club in Harlem, you cornered him.

“We need to talk,” you point your brush at him. It’s still loaded with green paint from the abstract you’re working on, and is dangerously close to his pristine jacket. “Sit.”

Loki obeys, following instruction to sit in the lone dining chair you own. You watch him, seeing how cool he is under inspection, and sigh. But he speaks first. “What is this about? I’m tired from working, and require rest.”

You shake your head. “Your references you gave me for judge of character for tenancy?” you run a hand by your hair, and move a fresh canvas onto the easel to paint upon. “Fake. The one who’s real got back to me today. His name is Tony Stark. _The_ Tony Stark, who is also the _freaking_ Iron Man, and said you were the guy who fell from the sky and brought aliens to America.” Placing your brush behind your ear, you grab the carpenter’s pencil and sketch out the picture.

Glancing to Loki, you see his pale face is paler.

“I can explain,” he whispers.

“Okay, then,” you nod, and stare deep into his green eyes that make you want to pull at his hair and kick his ass but also kiss him hard enough to leave a crater. This wasn’t your first interrogation (you used to play interrogation with your toys as a kid), but you knew that having feelings for the perp would make it that much harder. “His pal Thor, the Avenger, said you’re his brother. And were supposedly _dead_.”

“I can explain,” he iterates.

You huff. “Then explain, Loki Laufeyson, son of Odin and Laufey, _God of Lies,_ ” you narrow your eyes. “I may be just a human being, but I’m up to _here_ with halfway truths and shitty explanations.”

He swallows. “Thor and I were on Svartalfheim, home of the Dark Elves. I faked my death, but was stabbed in the melee by Kurse’s blade, and injured. With what seidr I had left, I transformed myself, and fled through Asgard to Midgard, to where we are now.”

You make a face, and dip a brush in the pot of yellow paint, and white for the background. “Sounds complicated, but makes sense. Why me? Why choose me? And why not get medical attention from the stab found?”

“I’m not sure why I chose to stay here. Something about this place made me feel as if I could be who I am, and not what I am supposed to be here.” He revealed. It sounded like the truth. On the phone, Thor spoke of his adopted brother as feeling lost at times from his bloodline and abilities. You sympathised, but not because you were a sympathiser for those who tried to take over the world and were brainwashed by otherworldly titans, but because he was just a guy who made shitty choices not on his own violation. “…I am not a human being, like you. We heal faster. Our technology is not so primitive, and I did not trust it.”

You pull a face, painting green clothes. “Like most Americans with the healthcare system. You’re becoming one of us.”

“Though,” he added, “if you did not take me to the medics at the time you did, I would surely be more unwell than ever. I am indebted to you.”

You smile. “When you speak like that, you make me feel like a fairy-tale princess. But also, like you’re admitting you were wrong. I can tell that was hard for you to say, but still, I’ll take it.” You motion to the canvas, to Loki, “Interrogation over. You can pay me back with your ‘indebted’ business by buying drinks at _Josie's Bar_ tonight.”

He lifts a brow, and stands, “Once, when I was sleeping I heard words about your father.” He tells you. “I do not think you realised that I could hear. But I wished for you to know some truth about him.”

For once, there are no words coming from you.

“His name is Philip Coulson, and has no fixed address. He is an agent for a facility known as S.H.I.E.L.D., and when I was under the influence of Thanos, I killed him.” You feel your throat grow dry at those words. But Loki adds, “But with technology beyond human understanding, he was brought back to life, and now has a plane and a team of agents who work to save the world, much like your Avengers.”

You feel a wet feeling on your cheeks, and realising too late they’re tears, go to swipe them away. “How – how did you know this?”

He shrugs. “The agent Romanov released all information into the world after the disaster that had befallen in the capital city of this country,” he tells you, moving to see your side of the canvas. “I simply have access to the internet like anyone else, and a passion for lies and truths.”

You turn to Loki, “Wait, you said he’s alive, does that mean…oh God, he probably hates you. And my mother acts like she doesn’t know, but –,” you turn to the canvas once more and wave it off. “I don’t know what it is, it’s not what you look like now, but…”

His eyes are wide. “That is me,” he tells you, “But that place is not here. That is the cell that I was kept within in Asgard, for my crimes here in Manhatten.” Loki turns to the paintings that are drying on the walls, and adds, pointing, “That picture reminds me of the wastes of Jotunheim, where Thor declared a war on Laufey,” turning, he adds, “and there, that looks like the library in Asgard,” he sighs, wistful, “the largest library since Ancient Library of Alexandria.”

Your throat grows dry once again, head feeling heavy. “Are you saying I’m painting the past?” you question Loki, the paint brush in your hands falling to the floor of the apartment. “That is so not an ordinary human thing.” You close your eyes, and shake your head. “I think it’s time I got some help from my dear old dad.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm Australian, and I find it hard to write the word 'Mom' without cringing. Here, we write it like 'Mum', and I hope you know what lengths I'm going to, to authenticate this fic for y'all Americans.


	2. The Immortal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An artist in NYC's recently uncovered talents flag her interest into her own unspoken backstory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From great demand on Wattpad, Tumblr and such, I've added another chapter. Hope you all enjoy it!
> 
> Also, credits to Wattpad user [@Yeva_Stark](https://www.wattpad.com/user/Yeva_Stark) for a line I borrowed from them in a comment on the chapter _The Painter_ on Wattpad, which can be found [right here](https://www.wattpad.com/424918373-100-marvel-one-shots-the-painter-loki-x-reader/page/2/comment/3730594146/replies/2928320074).

The day after you started your search for your long-lost father, your paintings sold for enough money to allow for an all-expenses paid trip around the country in your Versa. It turned out that Loki’s money was only an illusion, and as the sole breadwinner, you threw the both of you into your car, told your neighbor Mr. Murdock that you were going on a road trip, and went off on your way. Of course, the whole time you were just hoping that all the ideas in your head of who your bio-father was weren’t going to be a major let down when you got there. And what (what? is that even a PC term for your species?) you were.

_“Would you still stick around me if I turned out to be a microwave dinner experiment gone wrong?” you asked Loki, your arm out the window as you drove down the freeway to Washington D.C. where Loki’s sources said they’d be. “I could be literally the toe cheese of humanity.”_

_He shook his head. “That wouldn’t change what I think of you.”_

_You raise your eyebrows. “So, you think there’s a possibility I’m a mutated Mac & Cheese?” _

_“Perhaps not…maybe a burrito,” Loki laughed. “No. I think highly of you.”_

Just crossing from Maryland into D.C., you let out a breath you hadn’t been aware that you’d been holding. Your natural suspicion had never led you this far before, onto a paper trail to find the man who’d helped bring you to life. But when one begins to paint pictures of things that are from other people’s past, perhaps long-destroyed, the intensity tends to crank up. But natural suspicion or no, when you parked the car in a bay nearby the Triskelion, you straightened your back, locked the car, and marched off toward the customer service counter on the lower levels. It was still in construction, after the recent mess the HYDRA people.

But before you could even walk inside the building, two security guards had approached the pair of you, and escorted you to a separate entrance, their faces set into most defiantly not smiling, their suits looking more on the _Men in Black_ side of the scale than _Mall Cop_. You thought not much of it until they walked you and Loki to an elevator, and pressed a button you couldn’t see.

“Excuse me, I –,”

Loki’s hand wrapped around yours, gently squeezing. In the reflective surface of the elevator, he looked more worried than pensive, but still appeared to know what was happening. But, after all, he was the God of Lies. He could do and say things to you, and they could be the opposite, for all you knew. But right now, was most certainly not one of those moments.

_You had taken some time staring at the contact on your phone before dialling. In almost three rings, your mother picked up, her cheery greeting, and spiel about her week so far almost making you forget all the troubles that were on your mind._

_“Baby? You haven’t said a word, are you okay?” Her voice always made everything better. You loved the big city more than Portland, but you loved your mother more than all combined. “Come on, it can’t be bad enough to not talk about it.”_

_“I – I love you.” You stammered._

_But your mother saw through the façade. As a child, you’d say those three words to cover up things you weren’t brave enough to talk about, or wished to get out. It was almost a code she knew all the ciphers for._

_“Yeah, I love me too,” she joked, “but please. I’m here for you, you know that.”_

_You bite your lip. “I’m going down to D.C. for the weekend.”_

_Your mother made a delighted noise, “Oh, is this for one of your art projects? No, don’t tell me…you’re catching that exhibit in the Smithsonian before they end it, about…er, Captain America?”_

_“Something like that. I, just wanted to tell you.” You swallow. “I miss you, Mom.”_

_She laughed. “Don’t miss me! Enjoy D.C.!”_

You were freaking out when the elevator _dinged_ to the top floor, and you all stepped out, but when you saw the million-dollar face of Mr. Stark? You almost* wet yourself (*but didn’t, thank the lord).

“Thanks, Happy, Grumpy,” He nods to the guys who practically manhandled you into the Triskelion. “Good afternoon, Ms –,” Mr Stark stopped himself, looking to Loki, “…wait, you don’t wear the horns everywhere?” He asked.

“Only for special occasions.” Loki held onto his eye-roll particularly well.

You step forward. “I’m here to see my father, Mr. Stark. Unless he’s not – are you planning to threaten us?” You ask.

The genius-billionaire-playboy-philanthropist shook his head, “Uh, actually, I’m here to appeal to your humanity. Agent,” he pointed beside himself, to a door painted red. On the door is the words _Phil Coulson_ , “is in the next room. Go for your life.” You’re speechless, until you remember to thank Mr. Stark. “Loki…I say this in the sweetest way possible, but next time you want a reference…don’t put me down. I mean it. Still a little hurt about you throwing me out my own window.”

Snickering, you move toward the red door, leaving the Avenger and Asgardian God to their devices. As you move into the room, you notice it’s well-lit, with a wall to ceiling glass window overlooking Washington D.C. There’s a writing table in the corner, but the laptop is abandoned, desk chair empty. Instead, there’s an occupant in a red couch which faces an identical one. At the sight of you, he stands, a soft smile on his face.

“I guess you’ve got a few questions,” he straightens his tie, wiping his palms on his pants before offering you a handshake. “It’s good to see you.”

You frown, shaking your father’s hand. “…I suppose everything I know about myself isn’t as I think it is,” you clear your throat, and take a seat. “Mom thinks you’re dead.”

“To keep her safe, I thought it best to be that way,” Your father, Phil Coulson, nods. “But she knew that information before the Incident in New York, where your,” he takes a deep breath, “ _roommate_ killed me.”

You blink. “Well, you’re not dead, and I’m a freak. Sounds like we _are_ related.”

Phil chuckled, leaning back in his chair, “Freak? Is that what the kids are calling them these days?” He shook his head. “You’re not a freak.”

“So, what do you super-secret secret agents call people who can do things they can’t explain?”  You huff, and conclude, “I’m a freak.”

“You’re 632P18,” Phil’s voice is barely a whisper. “At least, that’s the code they call you by, after what Dr Connors did to you.” He can’t seem to look to you while he speaks, “While you were unborn, Audrey was subject to illegal experimentation. I was in Hawaii, had no idea. Nobody did, not until that Parker kid fought the guy after he turned into a lizard.”

You’ve been silent the whole time. “632 –,” you repeat.

“P18,” Phil whispers. “Every powered individual is classified on a database. You showed signs of being powered when you were nine, in that art competition you won.” You remember that competition. You had done a painting of a park bench, where a man and a woman with a cello sat under lamplight. You had won first place, and the hearts of your teachers who had urged you to follow the path toward being an artist. To think, it was because of some asshole playing God with you as a foetus. “I wish I could have done something.”

You lean forward, placing a hand on his. “It’s not your fault,” you whisper. “It’s just great to hear that I’m not going to spontaneously transform into a _Ninja Turtle_ on the full moon.”

“I’m sorry I missed being with you, growing up.” Phil cracked a smile. “You’re most defiantly my daughter.”

You grin. “You’re not bad, yourself, Dad,” you swallow the lump in your throat, and add, “Wait. Does this mean I could be an Avenger?” From the next room, you hear something breaking, and a shout that sounds most defiantly from the mouth of Loki.  You wince. “I think I should –,”

Phil nods. “I think that’s best.”

As you move to leave, you turn to your father. “Is it okay if I see you again?” You wonder.

“I’d love to,” he nods, a smile taking over his face, and adds, “You can even bring your boyfriend in next time. I’m sure we’d be on better terms now he’s not under the influence of an extra-terrestrial cube.”

“Boyfriend?” you gape. “I mean – he’s – we’re –,”

“I’ve been here before,” Phil Coulson grins. “You’ll work it out.”

 _The radio plays a mix of Elvis Presley and Tina Turner on the drive home. It takes almost four hours, with the traffic. You’d turned down the offer to take a plane home, because even if your father was some kind of superspy, his daughter was just a broke artist painting for a living, and the idea of flying with_ the _Iron Man seemed a little daunting. Especially with Loki in tow._

_You drive, listening to the radio, Loki scrawling over the newspaper crossword, and soon enough, you’re back to the apartment in Hell’s Kitchen._

_Home._

“You’ve been awfully quiet on the ride home,” Loki comments, unlocking the apartment door. “I think I can guess it.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Go on, shoot.”

“You’ve turned out to be mutated macaroni cheese,” Loki tosses the keys into the pot by the door, flicks the lights on, along with the television. There’s a rerun of _Sabrina the Teenage Witch_ on, which Loki has seemed to take a liking to. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

You shake your head, joining him on the couch. “Nope, just someone’s science experiment. But that’s not it. I’m…I don’t really know what to say about it. I’m still me.”

Silently, Loki turns the TV off, facing you. “If that’s not what’s bothering you, then what is?”

“Don’t laugh,” You take a deep breath, “Okay, I’m just going to go and say it. Do – do you want to be with me?”

“I am with you. On a couch, in Midgard.” He pauses, and adds, “Oh, you meant like _courting_. Yes. I’ll Netflix and chill with you.”

You can’t help it, but burst out laughing. “I’m not sure you know what that means…”

“I think I do.” He grins, “I do not mind whether you are a scientific experiment, a human, a hero or the artist you are now. I think I have caught feelings for you, and if you’ll have me, I’ll be yours until the end of time.”

You flick the TV back on so you can both watch the rest of _Sabrina the Teenage Witch_. “I love you too, Loki.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _La fin_

**Author's Note:**

> If you have any requests, find me on Tumblr at @susiephalange, or [@phalangewrites](https://phalangewrites.tumblr.com/request_conditions) ʕ·ᴥ·ʔ✿


End file.
